Chapter 4

Back at Rainy's elementary school, three weeks since the incident with the teacher. The child sits in a small wooden chair at the Principal's office. Her mother and father are meeting with her teacher, the counselor, a stranger, and the principal. They are all big and scary to the small first grader.

"Stupid," I heard Mummy yelling.

"And disrespectful," my teacher added.

"No, she just can't read. She's a smart little girl; her vocabulary is amazing—IQ off the charts ... nothing wrong with her processing," said a voice I didn't know.

"Something is wrong with her; she does things, jumps, runs, moves so fast, and she sits around and talks to our pets. She isn't normal. You know she's adopted, not from us, right?" said my born again Christian daddy.

"She has problems," said the Principal. "She needs discipline, spankings—that will straighten her out."

Looking at my untied shoelaces, I cried, understanding my stupidity and queerness. I sat there broken like a forgotten toy; no one would ever be able to fix me.

After crying for a few seconds, a nice lady with long dark hair and a very big body came up to me, giving me a tissue, "Don't listen. You're a pretty girl." She spoke with an unnaturally deep voice and then waited for me to respond. I said nothing, still crying.

"Can I tie your shoes?" she asked.

Shyly, I nodded and wiped my tears. The shouting in the principal's office continued, but I felt oddly better as the lady tied my shoes. Her hands were strong, and muscles rippled in her forearms as she tied. Glancing up at me, she whispered, "Many of us are different honey, you just need to hide it."

Butterflies churned in my stomach, and I felt queasy. A strange sensation teased my privates. I knew something peculiar differed me from the kids who liked to color in the lines and behaved when told to behave. I never colored in the lines, nor behaved when the teacher told me to behave.

My childish view of the world changed on that cool autumn morning, for the light of a new awakening rose within me, rumbling in my belly and tossing me into many years of confusion about my person. For some odd reason, I thought God forgot to make me a boy.

Later the same evening, the beatings started. They tried like hell to beat the strangeness out of me. Instead, they almost killed me.

Present timeline of the story. Coobie and Rainy are at the beach drinking coffee. The young man just accosted Rainy.

Looking at his angry face, I calmly said, "Dude, you don't want to do this."

"And you're gonna stop me?" he jerked my head back sharply. I moved my hand inside my bag and found my blade.

"We're sorry," cried Coobie in a sudden panic, her face turning bright red and breathing labored. "Please, we'll leave, just go away."

I fondled my switchblade, slowing my breathing and pulse rate, considering the best way to hurt this ignorant young man without killing him.

"Puppet," said one of his buddies, "cop." Puppet turned to view his lanky bigheaded friend. The young man pointed down the beach. About one hundred yards behind the punk, a cop on a chestnut horse rode in our direction.

Concentrating with great energy, I attempted to reach into the mind of the horse, telescoping the sensation of running. I made a connection, but the mind was wickedly savage, so I concentrated on a dog nipping at the feet of the animal. The chestnut whinnied and huffed, and then started a slow trot, much to the surprise of the copper, who caught off guard, almost took a tumble.

Puppet turned back and looked at me, his hard blue eyes icy and glazed. "This isn't over," he said, his spittle hitting my face.

"No, it isn't," I told him without missing a beat. He jerked my hair one last time, turning around and leaving, indicating for his buddies to follow. I wiped my face clean of his spit, thinking about retaliation.

The dick pivoted toward us and scrutinized me after walking about ten yards, "You fucked up." Pointing his fingers at me as if he held a pistol, he pulled a pretend trigger. He then laughed and said to his buddies loud enough for me to hear, "She's a dead bitch." The small gang of three punched each other playfully.

A slim kid no more than sixteen twisted toward us and grabbed his crotch, yelling, "For you, bitches!" He turned, and the small gang strutted down the beach as if they owned every bit of the world, a world only existing to feed their appetite. The three fools had no clue they just messed with the wrong queer. Not taking shit from anyone, I would exact my revenge at the appropriate time.

I picked up my coffee and took a sip, asking Coobie, "Now, where were we?" I reached out and took her hand.

She removed her hand from mine while gnashing her teeth. Staring at the mother and baby boy playing on the beach, she asked, "What the hell are you doing? Those boys are going to kill you. Everybody knows them." The Cuban stopped talking, her face twisting in a mix of anger and fear.

After a few seconds, she continued, "They broke the window to our shop." Turning back to me, her eyes stood wide open, darting occasionally over her shoulder. "You just scared the hell out of me."

A small tear drifted down her cheek and bottom lip quivered. The wind blew through her hair, and she had the look of a wounded woman—wounded from more than just the last few moments.

I took her hand, this time she didn't pull it away. We held hands for a few seconds, my thumb circling her palm. I said, my words certain and demeanor grim, "I learned long ago in a very bad way, if you don't stand up and fight, you get fucked over. Coobie, you need to know, if people fuck with me, they learn to regret it, and if they fuck with my friends..." I stopped, allowing time for her to comprehend my words, "They just might piss me off."

She moved her body away from mine, "I don't know if I can do this. You scare me."

Releasing her hand, I opened my palms and laid them on the table, "I scare myself."

After a few seconds of nothing but the wind blowing through her hair, I continued, "Try me, Mary." I took her hand and squeezed. She turned and focused on the beach. The mother and baby boy were packing up to leave. Sea birds skated in the shallows in search of a late breakfast. The cop on horseback finally rode by after settling his horse; he glared at us behind thick sunglasses. His lips curled in disgust.

Coobie said nothing with her voice, but the softness of her eyes; the pulse drumming in her neck, and the redness in her cheeks said everything.

Still gazing at the beach, she whispered in a voice so low I could barely hear her, "I need to get to work. I'm scared. Will you walk me?" With excessive pressure, she squeezed my hand. The squeeze fed my need to protect her at all costs, and I felt strange knowing she gained such status with me in such a short time. I didn't understand the meaning of the feeling, but I knew I wanted her safety and happiness more than I craved alcohol. Certainly, I felt her welfare was more important than mine.

Back in South Texas, Rainy is twelve years old.

As I cut through the alley on the way home, two large boys from my school confronted me. "Stop there freak," said Tommy, pushing me roughly to the ground, his face pockmarked and scarred.

I slowly stood, anger surging through my small frame. "You touch me again and I'll hurt you." I warned him, the blood coursing through my veins, increasing my pulse rate to a steady thump. His fat friend, Rodger, came up behind me and grabbed my arms. I struggled to get away, but he held firm.

"Shut up," yelled Rodger. "We're gonna have some fun, cut the shit and we won't hurt you." I stopped struggling, realizing a different path to deal with this predicament.

Tommy came up to me and touched me in a private place, and with the small rugged touch, something happened inside of me, like a switch turning from off to on. Power filled my body as endorphins flooded my bloodstream, and I felt invincible. I relaxed my shoulders, causing Rodger to loosen his grip. I breathed deeply, slowing my heartbeat and waiting for the right moment. Tommy touched me again, this time squeezing hard and slapping my face. "Are you gonna fight anymore?" he asked.